The August Dread: When Everyone Else's Summer Hurts To Look At

By Sami Ward | Chaos to Calm | 3 August 2026

It starts with a photo. Passports fanned out on someone's kitchen table. A departures board. A caption that says "first family holiday in three years, so blessed" and something in your chest folds quietly in on itself.

You put the phone down. You put the kettle on. You tell yourself you're being ridiculous.

You're not being ridiculous. You're at the start of August, and if you're a mum whose young person can't do holidays, can't manage airports, or hotels, or being away from their safe space, or can't be left while the rest of you go, then this month has a particular weight to it that almost nobody talks about. So let's talk about it.

That feeling has a name, and it isn't jealousy

I know some of you are carrying shame about this. You see your sister's holiday photos, and something ugly rises up, and you wonder what kind of person you've become.

So let me take that shame off you now. Jealousy is wanting what someone else has. What you're feeling is grief for what you were supposed to have. They are completely different things.

When you look at that airport photo, you aren't coveting anyone's holiday. You're mourning the version of your life where that photo was possible, the daughter who could get on a plane, the son who wanted to come, the family that could simply go somewhere without a risk assessment and an exit plan. That's a real loss. But it's an invisible one, because nobody died, so nobody sends flowers, and nobody says they're sorry. You end up grieving something no one can see while smiling politely at other people's boarding passes.

You're not a bad sister, or a bad friend, or a bad person. You're a grieving one. And once you call it by its right name, it becomes something you can carry with a bit more kindness.

Your phone is not on your side this month

Here's a practical truth: August is the hardest month of the year to be one of us on social media. Six solid weeks of everyone else's highlight reel, arriving at exactly the moment your own summer feels smallest.

And you know this, but it's worth hearing again at 11pm with your thumb hovering over the app: you are comparing your behind-the-scenes to their trailer. The vineyard mum may have had a screaming row in the car. The "so blessed" family may be one lost booking from a meltdown. Nobody posts the crying-in-the-hotel-bathroom bit.

So here is my full permission, mum to mum: mute people in August. Mute, not unfollow; they never know, and you can quietly welcome them back in September. Your nervous system does not owe anyone an audience for their holiday photos. Protecting your peace isn't pettiness. It's first aid.

Underneath the holidays, there's the September countdown

Because August isn't only about other people's beaches, is it? August is the waiting room for September.

For some of us, there are results coming, and for our young people, results day is never just "did I pass." It lands on the rawest nerve they have, the one that whispers about worth. So we spend the month holding our own nerves and theirs, and theirs are wired to a far more sensitive trigger.

For others it isn't results at all. It's the course that starts, or doesn't. The job that might happen, or won't. The friends packing for university while your young person's world stays small. Every bright September milestone on other families' calendars can feel like another measure of the gap between the life you imagined and the one you're actually living.

The result is a low hum of dread underneath the whole month. You're braced for September before August has even begun, which means, if you're not careful, you never actually get an August at all.

A small summer is not a failed summer

So what do we actually do? Not ten things. Three.

First, let August be smaller, on purpose. You're not competing with anyone's summer, including the one you used to have. If a good day now is a takeaway in the garden while your young person feels safe enough to sit with you for twenty minutes, that counts. On our road, that is the holiday. Write those days down when they happen, because comparison will try to steal them from you by morning.

Second, grieve on purpose instead of by ambush. The folding-chest feeling comes whether you allow it or not, but there's a difference between grief that ambushes you in the supermarket queue and grief you've made room for. Tell one safe person the truth: "I'm finding this month hard because everyone else is on holiday and we can't do that." The sentence is heavier inside you than outside you. I promise.

Third, find the people on your road. In our free Facebook community there are no boarding passes, no vineyard photos, just mums who understand why August stings and who will genuinely celebrate your twenty minutes in the garden win, because they know exactly what it cost.

You're allowed to be happy for them and heartbroken for you at the same time. That's not hypocrisy. That's just what loving someone through this feels like, both things, all month.

Here's what I'd love you to sit with this week: if you stopped measuring your August against everyone else's entirely, what would a genuinely good day, your version, look like?

And is there one small piece of it you could make happen before Friday?

Your calm in the chaos,

Sami 💙⚓

FAQ section

Why do other people's holiday photos upset me so much?

If your family can't take holidays because of your child's mental health, seeing other families travel can trigger real grief for the family life you expected to have. This isn't jealousy or bitterness, it's mourning something invisible that others can't see, which makes it harder to carry because it goes unacknowledged.

Is it normal to feel resentful when my child can't do family holidays?

Yes, completely normal. Many parents of young people with emotional dysregulation, BPD or EUPD feel a mixture of grief, frustration and guilt around summer. These feelings don't mean you love your child any less; they mean you're human and you're carrying a genuine loss.

What is disenfranchised grief?

Disenfranchised grief is grief that society doesn't recognise or make space for, such as mourning the family life or milestones you expected to have. Because there's no funeral or ritual for this kind of loss, parents often grieve it silently, which can make it feel heavier and lonelier than it needs to be.

Should I take a break from social media in August?

If holiday content is hurting, then yes, protecting yourself is sensible and not petty. Muting accounts rather than unfollowing means people never know, and you can bring them back whenever you're ready. Your wellbeing matters more than keeping up with anyone's highlight reel.

How can I support my child through results day anxiety?

For young people with emotional dysregulation, results can feel like a judgement of their worth rather than their grades. Keep the day low-pressure, avoid framing outcomes as make or break, have a plan for both good and difficult news, and remind them that no envelope defines them or their future.

How do I cope with everyone asking about our summer plans?

A simple, prepared answer helps, such as "we're keeping things low key this year." You don't owe anyone an explanation of your family's circumstances. Deciding in advance what you're comfortable sharing takes the sting out of the question when it comes.

What does a good summer look like when big holidays aren't possible?

It looks smaller and closer to home: a meal in the garden, a film together, a short drive somewhere familiar, an ordinary moment where your young person feels safe and settled. These aren't consolation prizes, for families living with emotional dysregulation, they're the real thing, and they count.